


more of us

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Banter, Depression, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5599255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> I love you. Come home. </i> Written in every line, in every word, in every stroke of the pen. Hamilton, for all his lengthy essays with points as sharp as knives, might be the undisputed master of saying as much as possible without actually saying it. Hadn’t he said it, though, kissed it into Laurens’ body the night before he left?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teach Me How to Say Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> First and most importantly: This is a Laurens Lives AU. That does not mean that this is a “everything is immediately happy” AU. Dude had to have had a lot of issues to consider suicide in the way that he was. Getting Hamilton’s letter was what got him to not take the metaphorical jump. But just because he didn’t (at that moment) act on his impulses, that doesn’t mean that the impulses went away. He has to like, actually deal with his issues, which he will over the course of the story. See the tags? They aren’t there to look pretty. Take care of yourselves, guys. (And click to the bottom for more notes! I talk a lot.)

It was quiet in the woods, the revelries of earlier having died down as men either passed out drinking or ran out of things to drink, and for what definitely wasn’t the first time, John Laurens was left alone with his thoughts. He and Hamilton were curled up in their tent, in their cot, for what would be the last time—they had won, the war was over, there was no pretense that they could hide behind. Hamilton was curled up against him, arm thrown over his neck, face mere inches from his, and Laurens was doing his best to drink it in. He curled a hand in Hamilton’s nightshirt, felt the other man’s warmth—he was always so warm, like he carried the heat of his birthplace with him wherever he went, like he was a sun, burning up and illuminating everything, pulling others into his orbit.

That was how Laurens knew he would survive this. Suns weren’t dependent upon their planets. And Alexander had survived so much, the loss of people much closer to him. And he had Eliza, who he could never bring himself to stop talking about. There had been that night when he, so dazzled by whatever they had been doing that evening, forgot the password to get into the camp and had to be fetched by Lafayette. There had been the countless letters. There had been the wedding—

Okay, maybe the wedding and the following night weren’t the best proof of Hamilton’s exclusive devotion to his wife. Laurens flushed at the memory, even though it was (for the most part) lost in a haze of alcohol. Some things still stood out, even months later—Hamilton’s hand on his arm, mouth near his ear, whispering invitations, promises, the light press of Eliza’s lips against his cheekbone, the look Hamilton had given him, his eyes so focused and bright…

Laurens’ breath caught in his throat. If this night was the last night he’d have with Hamilton, the last night like this, he’d have one thing—he’d see his eyes again. He leaned forward, nudged Hamilton’s cheekbone with his nose. Hamilton shifted against him, drawing their faces even closer, knocking their knees and bumping their mouths together.

“Hmm?” And Laurens could feel Hamilton’s confusion against his lips. Hamilton shifted, eyes blinking open. Even in the tent, with the flaps shut and the lamps blown out, they were as bright as they had been on his wedding night, after the battle on their walk back to Washington’s tent, the first time they had kissed, awkward and drunk and laughing half the way, the first time Laurens had seen him… “John?”

“Yeah,” Laurens whispered, his heart pounding in his throat. This close together, there was no pretending that he wasn’t awake—and sure enough, Hamilton was pressing sleep-shaky fingertips against his neck.

“What’s’a matter?” His voice was sleep-thick, and he had to swallow a few times. Guilt hit Laurens like a musket ball to the heart. Why did he even… was he really so selfish that he couldn’t give Hamilton a night uninterrupted?

“Nothing.” An automatic response.

Hamilton snorted at that, and shifted so Laurens was on his back, Hamilton on his chest, their bodies pressed as tightly together as two sheets of paper. “Your heart’s pounding.”

“…Yeah,” Laurens whispered. “It’s just…” He couldn’t tell Hamilton the truth. But at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to outright lie, either. He settled for a middle ground. “We won.”

Alexander laughed, a bright sound. “We won!” he agreed, his voice shedding its thickness, and he pulled Laurens’ face to his, their mouths meeting. It was a softer reprise of the kiss they had shared in the woods, after they had finished negotiations, Laurens lifting Hamilton off his feet, Hamilton’s arms locked around his neck, both of them stumbling and laughing and finally hitting a tree that they leaned against for a few more long moments. Hamilton kissed with the same intensity that he did everything, and Laurens, for once, let himself go with it instead of pressing back. To pretend that he was as excited now as he had been hours ago would be a lie of the worst kind.

Hamilton pulled back. “You’re…” He touched Laurens’ cheek. When he pulled his hand away, tears glinted on his fingertips. He sat up, knees on either side of Laurens’ hips. His hair was falling out of its ponytail, swoops of dark brown framing his face, his mouth twisted and his eyebrows knotted. “Realtalk. What’s wrong?”

Laurens pushed himself up onto his elbows. Swallowed. His stomach was a stone. “I’m going to miss you,” he said. The truth, or at least a part of it.

Hamilton blinked. “Don’t be an idiot, okay? South Carolina’s going to go great. And then you’re going to come back, and we’re gonna lawyer together. Practice the shit outta some law. Make fun of Burr. Team up with Burr and make fun of him. Write separate ten-page letters to Lafayette about all the shit our kid does.” He leaned forward and kissed Laurens, who fell back onto the bed as he grasped at Hamilton’s back.

Hamilton broke the kiss. “Let me give you something to remember when you’re down south,” he said.

Laurens tried to keep the sob out of his laugh and pulled him closer.

Morning dawned too soon. With it came expectations—bags to be packed, horses to be saddled, paths to be treaded. In the pale light of peace Hamilton looked different—more human. Laurens could see how badly his lips had chapped, how messy his hair was, how he was a good inch shorter than the average soldier, if not more, how he was shivering, hands jammed into his coat pockets as he ground his teeth together.

They were outside, by the stables. Too many people were milling about for him to risk a kiss, even an embrace, so instead he gave Hamilton a stiff-jawed nod.

“Until we meet again,” Hamilton said, and Laurens’ stomach twisted. Hopefully it would be decades before he saw Hamilton’s face. Hopefully he’d never see it again. Hopefully—

“Laurens!” That was Lafayette, striding across the snow. He enveloped Laurens in a hug, fairly lifting him off the ground. “Mon ami, I will forgive your oversight in being so rude as to forget to inform me of your departure if, in return, you do promise to write me. In French. Pages and pages, John.”

“Can’t… breathe…” Laurens gasped, instead of answering, and Lafayette set him down. He put a hand on Laurens’ shoulder, stared intently at him.

“Letters. A visit, if possible. I’ll have you and Alex over and you can meet Adrienne and mingle with every asshole I’ve told you about.”

“And fight them,” Alex added, grinning.

Lafayette shrugged. “But of course. And then I will apologize for your behavior and say that it’s a result of your American brutality, and they will by that point have forgotten that I am just as brutal as you are—and also a Musketeer.”

Laurens swallowed. He was going to do this—this thing. And leave Lafayette, and Hamilton, and the camaraderie that the three of them had—

But Lafayette had Adrienne and a whole world across the sea. Even if Laurens didn’t… didn’t go through with it, it wasn’t likely that the two of them would ever be in the same room. They’d just have letters, months apart, always wanting to get closer but never quite achieving it.

A quick severance would be better, really. For everybody involved.

But because he was weak, Laurens hugged Lafayette again, and tugged Hamilton in too. One last time, he told himself as he closed his eyes. He opened them after a moment had passed and stepped back. Lafayette kissed him on both cheeks, did the same to Hamilton, and waved goodbye.

“I’ll tell the General that you’re gone,” he said, heading off.

And then it was just him and Hamilton. Again.

“Oh, fuck it,” Hamilton muttered, and launched himself at Laurens. Laurens caught him, staggering back a step, as Hamilton threw one arm around his neck and one around his waist, pressing them as close together as they could get. “Babe, listen—kick ass. Write me. I love you.” He kissed Laurens—half on the cheek and half on the mouth.

Somebody from the stables shouted that his horse was ready, and the two of them sprung apart. Soldiers hugged each other all the time, yeah, but… It was different when you had something to hide.

Laurens headed inside, forcing himself to not look back. Only when he was on his horse, a good half-hour out of camp, did he realize that he hadn’t said the words back.


	2. Get Your Man Back

Laurens had realized, over the past few weeks, that the world was different when you knew that you were going to die. The grass was greener, the sky was lighter, the air was sweeter—it was like the world was trying to hold on, trying to convince him to stay. But at the same time his line of sight had narrowed to the path ahead of him. He knew what was coming—he knew what he had to do.

Because he did _have_ to do it. What was his alternative—go back north, live with Hamilton, wait with a sick heart for Hamilton’s enemies (because he would have plenty) to find them out? Have Hamilton and his wife (and their child, depending on how long things dragged on) suffer through the indignity of a trial, of the rumors that would follow? No. He loved Hamilton, loved him with a fiery intensity that he thought his heart reserved for battle, for righteousness. Hamilton was the best thing in his life—Laurens wouldn’t, couldn’t let him go through that.

And there were worse ways to die than in battle, worse places to die than in South Carolina in the late summer. Laurens didn’t respect his home state for a lot of things, slavery being the first and most obvious one, but the weather was something he’d grown up loving. Already his skin was that much darker from long hours in the saddle. When he got back he’d have the worst tan lines and a thousand more freckles, and Hamilton would—

No.

No, he wouldn’t. 

Laurens sighed. Here in his tent at the end of the day, it was easy to imagine, to spin out years of a life where he didn’t have to worry about anything. He could even lie outside and stare at the same stars he and Hamilton had watched a thousand times together, pretend that it was that hot July night when they had snuck away. Drunk on moonshine and each other, they’d stolen some horses and ridden upstate, getting there well before midnight. Laurens had just finished tying the horses to a tree when Hamilton had leapt on him and pressed him into the grass, kissed his way down Laurens’ body, shucking off any clothing that had the indecency to get in the way. Laurens had laid back and done his best not to cry out, watching the stars shift across the sky before he returned the favor. 

Laurens’ stomach twisted. This was his fault, all of it. If he had loved Hamilton, really and truly, he would have kept his damn distance. He would have built a wall between the two of them. What he was going to do—it was a poor man’s solution, but the only one available to him. Tomorrow it’d be over with.

All of a sudden his tent seemed stifling, the cloth walls as solid as solid stone. He scrambled out and stretched, sucking in a lungful of night air and heading for the edge of camp. He didn’t want to head too far out—bears were a present danger—but he couldn’t stand to be cooped up any more than he already was.

Off in the distance horse hooves were clopping, getting closer. Laurens froze, the hair on his neck standing up. Was this an attack?

No—there was only one horse, and it slowed its pace as it arrived. Laurens ran to meet it, wishing he had brought his sword. “Who is it?”

The horse stopped at the outskirts of camp, the man on it sliding off. “Gotta letter for…” he squinted at the paper in his hand “Lieutenant Colonel Laurens? There somebody here?”

“That’s me,” Laurens said. “And for God’s sake be quiet.” Greene had sent him off after the British earlier that day, and he’d allowed his men to set up camp for the night while he went around

( _saying his goodbyes_ )

visiting friends in the area who he hadn’t seen in years, but… if this man could find them without any forewarning…

“Hey! You want the letter or not?” He was waving the envelope in Laurens’ face.

Laurens snatched it. “ _Thank_ you. Dismissed.” The last word was more of an afterthought, as the man had already hauled himself back up onto his horse and was plodding off into the night.

Opening the envelope in the dark wasn’t an easy feat, but years of working as an aide de camp had taught him how to handle paper in all kinds of godawful conditions. He ripped the envelope open and eased the letter out, unfolded it.

It was Hamilton’s handwriting. Because of course it goddamn was. Laurens read it in silence, squinting at the words.

Then he walked to his tent on shaky legs, collapsed onto his cot, lit a lantern, and read it again.

 _My Dear friend_ , Hamilton had written, hiding the endearment with an extra word, _quit your sword. We fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy_. _Yrs for ever_.

Laurens let the letter flutter to the ground. All of a sudden the blood seemed to have left his body, leaving him wooden. Through a titanic force of effort he could reach the letter again, could pick it up, could glance over it. It was blurring, letters and words blending into each other, but he could read it fine.

 _I love you. Come home._ Written in every line, in every word, in every stroke of the pen. Hamilton, for all his lengthy essays with points as sharp as knives, might be the undisputed master of saying as much as possible without actually saying it. Hadn’t he said it, though, kissed it into Laurens’ body the night before he left?

_I love you. Come home._

He was so weak. He couldn’t stop himself from loving Hamilton, didn’t stop himself from kissing him and more, wouldn’t go through with the only thing that could keep the both of them safe.

_I love you. Come home._

John Laurens buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he bit his lip, doing his best to hold back tears.


	3. Look At My Son

Hamilton leaned over his son’s crib. Philip was _finally_ sleeping, snoring, his mouth half-open. It was, without any doubt, the most wonderful thing Hamilton had seen in his life, bar nothing. He had the best son—the best kid in the entire world. Burr would be _so_ goddamn jealous when Philip grew up and his… Theodore, right?… turned out to be not half as awesome as Philip Goddamn Hamilton. It was times like this that Hamilton wished he had decent skill as an artist, so he could capture moments like this and wave them in Burr’s face. They sometimes ran into each other in the library, too—he could draw Philip on the back of his essay drafts.

“Alexander?”

He turned. Eliza was in the doorway, her hair around her shoulders.

“Our son is the greatest,” he told her. 

She smiled. She was the most beautiful like that. He said as much and she smiled wider, and he kissed her full on the mouth, dipped her. Her heart was beating against his spread hand, pressed firmly in the middle of her back. He pulled away for air. “Best of wives and best of mothers,” he said, just to make her smile again.

“There’s somebody here for you,” she said, slipping out of his grip to stand upright. She took his hand.

“Is it Burr?” Hamilton asked as she led him downstairs. “Because honestly, if he thinks that I’m going to cut five pages of that essay just because _he_ doesn’t feel like taking a stance on a _widely agreed-upon verdict_ just because the goddamn case hasn’t been resolved—”

Eliza opened the door to the main room.

Laurens was sitting on the sofa, just as scruffy-looking as he had been the day he’d left for South Carolina but a good deal browner. He stood and stared at Hamilton.

“Oh my God,” Hamilton said, and threw himself at Laurens, holding him close. He was a rock, steady as anything, the most solid thing in Hamilton’s life. Of course he was back. But it had been fucking _ages_. “Jesus Christ, oh my God.”

“Yeah,” Laurens said, sounding pretty wrecked. Hamilton pulled away, still holding onto Laurens’ upper arms, gave him a once-over. 

“Are you okay? Did you get shot? I swear, if you got shot again, I’ll…” Hamilton paused. “…Take you out back and shoot you myself.” He nodded. That was clearly the right thing to do.

Laurens gave him a twisted smile at that. “I didn’t get shot.” 

Hamilton tried to read his face. “Did you get my letters?” 

“Every one.” Laurens swallowed. “I love you,” he said, but in a way that sounded more like _I actually did get shot, like, just before I started talking_.

Hamilton wasn’t about to start being choosy. “I love you too,” he said, and tugged Laurens’ head down to kiss him on the cheek, on the mouth, only pulling away when Laurens actually started _crying_ , his breath coming in jagged sobs. He wrapped his arms around Laurens, held him still. Eliza crossed the room and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee… whisky?” She cut her eyes over to Hamilton and he could see the uncertainty in them. He tried to respond with a shrug, but Laurens was clinging to him in a way that restricted shoulder movement… any kind of movement, really. He settled for grimacing in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner.

The issue was resolved when Laurens took a step back, wiped his face off with his coatsleeves—Jesus, why was he wearing his coat inside? “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Hamilton, Mr. Hamilton. My apologies for the… indecency. Of both the hour and my behavior. I’ll… go.” He took a step back, like he was actually going to _leave_. Like he was going to stumble out into the street in the dead of night with bloodshot eyes and pay some tavern or boarding house for a room, like Hamilton was just one of his old _war buddies_ , the kind that you bumped into every now and again and nodded at but didn’t ever want to have to deal with.

Hamilton grabbed his wrist. “You asshole, you’re not going anywhere.” When Laurens stared, looking like an exceptionally wounded dog, Hamilton sighed. “We have a guest room. There’s plenty of food. _Stay_.” He moved his hand from Laurens’ wrist to his hand, let their fingers tangle together.

Laurens’ eyes half-closed and his hand tightened around Hamilton’s before he pulled back. “Hey…”

Hamilton gripped him tighter. “Hey. C’mon.” A moment. “Please.”

“Mrs. Hamilton…”

Eliza stared at him. “Don’t try to appeal to _me_ here, John. You were the one who showed up on our doorstep at two in the morning. I can’t kick you out.” A wry smile crossed her face. “What would the neighbors say? They’d think I’m having an affair.”

Laurens let out a strangled laugh. “Well, shit. Can’t say no to _that_.”

“Yeah,” Hamilton told him. “If you besmirch my wife’s honor, I’d have to duel you. And I’d win, just saying.”

This time Laurens’ smile was approaching what could be seen on an actual human’s face after they had heard something remotely funny. “That’s slander—I oughta duel you for that.”

“Step outside, motherfucker,” Hamilton said, and wrapped Laurens’ arm around his shoulder, threaded his own arm across Eliza’s waist. “Come on,” he said, steering the two of them toward the stairs. “You gotta meet Philip. He is the absolute best kid. Smartest goddamn infant I know, bright as the sun, best hair of the ‘80s… Betsey, am I missing anything?” 

“Last week you said he was the closest thing that anyone could get to an accurate imitation of what demons from Hell out for blood could sound like,” Eliza told him. 

“Right!” Hamilton said. “Destined for the opera, this one. And he’s adorable.”

“So he takes after Eliza, then,” Laurens said.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Hamilton said, “I will push you down these stairs. I look great. Philip looks great. Therefore, Philip is a spitting image of me, only with Eliza’s eyes.”

“Um,” Eliza said, and stepped away from him to open the nursery door. “If you say so, dear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hamilton said, leading Laurens in. “He looks great.” He crossed the room, led Laurens over to his son. “See?”

And then he saw.

“Oh, _shit_.” For what wasn’t the first time, him and Laurens were speaking in unison.

Laurens rubbed his face. “Oh, fucking shit. How drunk was I? Hamilton, fucking _Christ_ —Eliza, I’m…”

“Betsey,” Hamilton said, at nearly the same time. “I’m so sorry.”

Eliza just blinked. “Wait. What?”

Hamilton froze. “What do you mean, _what_? Philip… Philip is…”

“My son,” Laurens whispered. “God, Alexander, I’m so sorry. I should never have—”

“Can both of you stop acting like a pair of teenage girls who started bleeding for the first time?” Eliza said, her voice showing a hint of steel. The two of them froze, and she continued. “I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of those.” She laid a hand on Hamilton’s arm. “Alexander,” she went on, her voice softer, “I really did think that you knew. I thought we had just, like, mutually quietly agreed not to talk about it.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Laurens said, still rubbing his jaw. “But when has Alexander _ever_ quietly done anything in his life?”

Eliza frowned. “Point.”

“Oh my God,” Hamilton whispered. For over a year now Philip had been the most concrete proof of his and Eliza’s marriage. And now he was _more_. There weren’t words enough to express how his heart had expanded, a dizzyingly vast amount of space made available, only to be filled immediately with an almost unbearable tenderness. His son, his _son_ …

“He’s still your son,” Eliza said. The steel was back. “You’re my husband, he has your name, and you woke up at midnight to rock him back to sleep when I was sick, don’t you _dare_ —”

“Of _course_ he’s my son,” Hamilton said, and pulled her into a hug. She swallowed and hugged him back, burying her face in his shoulder and—yup, she was crying. “He’s our son.” He tugged Laurens into the hug, too. “See, asshole, you gotta stay now. I don’t make the rules.”

“You fucking gold-digger honey-trap piece of shit,” Laurens said, impossibly soft, and kissed him on the cheek. And then, carefully, he pressed his lips against the top of Eliza’s head. “I really hope that you don’t ask for any repeat performances, Mrs. Hamilton.”

Eliza laughed into Hamilton’s chest. “Mr. Laurens, I’m perfectly content with one man in my life—and I hope my husband is as well.”

“Betsey,” Hamilton said, “I might defy the laws of nature whenever I have the opportunity… but I’m faithful when I do it.” He pressed a kiss into her dark hair, threaded fingers through Laurens’ curls, and held the two people he loved more than anything as close as he could.


End file.
